The Multilevel Dive

Margaret's gray hair had become a map of every compromise she'd made in seventeen years at the company. She caught her reflection in the lobby glass — thirty years of HR nightmares etched into the lines around her eyes. Her red hat, a felt cloche she'd bought on a whim in Paris, sat slightly askew.

'Swimming upstream,' she muttered to herself, pushing through the revolving doors into the October heat.

The office pool had been Javier's idea. A simple betting bracket on which middle manager would crack first during the merger. Margaret had disapproved officially, in writing, twice. But she'd privately put fifty dollars on Greg from Accounting — his wife had just left him, and he'd taken to crying in the breakroom.

Now she stood in the courtyard where the summer interns still lolled by the building's empty pool, unchanged since the 2008 budget cuts. Marcus, the slick VP of Sales, stood atop the lifeguard tower, gesturing expansively.

'It's not just income,' he was saying, his Italian silk shirt unbuttoned one button too far. 'It's generational wealth. You recruit three, they recruit three, that's nine. Then those nine recruit three each — that's your foundation. Your pyramid.'

Margaret's stomach churned. Another multilevel scheme, illegal as hell, recruiting from the company directory on company time. She should document it. She should report it.

Instead, she thought about her mortgage, her son's tuition, the empty retirement account that had bled value through two crashes and a pandemic. She thought about Greg from Accounting, who would probably be the first to sign up.

Marcus caught her eye and smiled. 'Margaret. You have people skills. You could build your team in a week.'

She adjusted her hat. 'I'm listening.'

Later, alone in her office, she would open a notebook and write: First recruit: the intern who couldn't afford rent. Second: the single father in custodial. She was swimming now, but she couldn't tell if she was staying afloat or just learning to breathe underwater.